


As We Live and Breathe

by Renee_Mariposa



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Bee keeping, Consensual Sex, Falling In Love, Healer!Mary, King!John, M/M, Medieval Medicine, Omega John, Prostitute Sherlock, Prostitution, Slow Burn, War, altered gender dynamics, changing our fate, farming kingdom, grizzled sheriff!Lestrade, medieval vs modern medicine, polytheistic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-03-23 00:57:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3749107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Renee_Mariposa/pseuds/Renee_Mariposa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and his kingdom are still suffering the effects of the last great war: him, through grievous injury, his kingdom, through debt. When an escaped sex slave is rescued from death on his land, John will be put to the test. Can John save the stranger from his former master? Can John save his kingdom from destruction? Can John save himself from his past?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Stranger

**Author's Note:**

> > And yet it is hard to believe that anything  
> in nature could stand revealed as solid matter.  
> The lightning of heaven goes through the walls of houses,  
> like shouts and speech; iron glows white in fire;  
> red-hot rocks are shattered by savage steam;  
> hard gold is softened and melted down by heat;  
> chilly brass, defeated by heat, turns liquid;  
> heat seeps through silver, so does piercing cold;  
> by custom raising the cup, we feel them both  
> as water is poured in, drop by drop, above.
> 
> De Rerum Natura (On the Nature of Things), Book I, lines 487-496. 

John heard the doors to the library crash open, and the staggering feet of a half-dozen men. “M’lord!” a man’s voice called, obviously attempting to be respectful but falling into the panic of an urgent situation.  


He finished his written thought, blotted the parchment, and bookmarked his place in the ledger. He allowed himself to glance out the window to his right: the summer morning was just beginning to warm, the dew drying and the air becoming heavy with humidity. He could see the trees that surrounded his property dropping off into patched land colored by promised harvests, still green, still maturing into gold. After a moment of peace, he retrieved his cane from its resting place (hanging on the back of his chair) and painfully stood.  


The guards were carrying a stretcher among them, and John’s heart sank. He knew what he would see even before they bowed before him and allowed him to see their burden: the man they carried was caked in mud, his longish hair matted with blood (new and old, utterly rank regardless). He was wrapped in a cart canvas, which means he’d been found naked.  


“Where?” John asked, fingers moving to take a pulse. Relief washed through him: this one was alive. The pulse was slow and weak, but it was there.  


“In the west corner of your land, sir,” his head guard, Standford, supplied. The man’s normally jolly face was creased with worry. “I believe he’d been following the river but was cut down by starvation. He’s skin and bone, sir.”  


John sighed, then noded. “Please take him to the Healer.” The woman, Mary, lived on the other side of the house because she was John’s personal physician. “You probably should’ve taken him there, first, then alerted me.” The men shifted uncomfortably, avoiding his gaze. Standford took a step closer and lowered his voice. His eyes skittered away and he bowed his head slightly. “Sir, you should know…” His embarrassment was palpable.  


“Spit it out, Standford,” John commanded gently.  


Standford spoke even more quietly. “He’s…a prostitute, sir. An alpha prostitute.”  


With this pronouncement, John understood two things. One, that this stranger was a Northerner. John reached forward and scratched away at the mud on the man’s shoulder to find apple-red, horrifically peeling skin (a sunburn, instead of the dark burnish of a native), confirming his understanding. Only those barbarians in the North carry out such practices as binding alphas for slavery: the gods of the plains and the coasts would never allow it. Two, this man was someone’s property, and the owner would come calling eventually.  
“Take him to the Healer,” John gently repeated. “I’ll be there in a moment.”  


The guards bowed and stood. After a momvent of maneuvering, they clattered back out of the room. John experienced a moment of silence: the dangerous silence that seemed to eat away at him during the long, cold nights after returning from war. This stranger was a complication he didn’t need right now, but he couldn’t justify throwing the stranger out of the Watson lands or—gods forbid—performing a mercy killing. The harvest was looking promising this year, but that payoff was moons away, leaving supplies stretched thin in the meantime. The stranger will presumably need herbs and bandages, and food, and what if his master came calling? How much was this stranger worth to his master? Presumably, too much for John to pay. John could easily lie about the stranger, but at what price if the lie was discovered? Burning of the fields, another winter of starvation?  


His leg started to ache, all the way down to the bone. John grit his teeth and clamped the cane more tightly. He forced himself to breathe slowly and deeply, as Mary had advised a hundred times.  


_Remember, John,_ she said every time, _the words of the Gods: life and breath are one. As we breathe, so do we live._


	2. The Stranger (pt II)

John limped into the infirmary. The six guards had managed to attract onlookers like old fruit attracts flies, all whispering and muttering and generally crowding the small room. The door to the bathing room was closed: John inferred that the stranger was inside, being bathed by the Healer.  


He cleared his throat and silence cut through the crowd like a chill. “I’m going to need everyone to leave,” he ordered calmly. “I will update you when there is news.” He moved out of the way and after a few minutes, the room was blissfully empty.  


The door to the bathing room opened and Mary peeked around it. Her grim demeanor lightened when she saw John. “Good man!” she whispered. “Now help me get him into the cot. He’s thin but he’s heavy!”  


“Is he awake?” John asked as he limped into the bathing room. The stranger was lying in the drained tub, already dressed in a loose robe, head resting on a rolled towel.  


Yep, a northerner for sure: longish hair in dark curls, skin as white as polished bone (aside from the burns where he hadn’t been covered: John wondered if he’d been attacked and left for dead, robbed of even his clothes). At first glance, he was achingly gorgeous, all muscle and bone, but John has a keener eye than that: the man was purpled with old bruising. No scars, though. John knelt at the stranger’s head and hooked his hands under the stranger’s armpits; Mary lifted at the knees. The man was much taller than John had first thought, but John had no way of knowing how much taller. They lifted in unison and try their best not to jostle their patient. The stranger’s head lolled while resting on John’s shouler.  


Even this close to the man, John couldn’t catch a whiff of Alpha, so he asked Mary about it after the stranger is carefully placed on the cot and covered with a blanket.  


“He’s had the surgery to be unable to knot, but that alone doesn’t explain it,” she quietly began to explain, and John winced. He might not be an alpha but he could commiserate the loss of one’s ability to mate and bond. “There are a lot of alchemists in the northland: I imagine he was medicated at regular intervals and his scent replaced to please the client.” She rolled her eyes at John’s questioning look. “My Order is campaigning to make the practice illegal. If the chemicals aren’t dosed properly, the patient can suffer terribly.”  


“Sounds expensive,” John remarked, looking back at the stranger. The Healer snorted.  


“Look at him,” she replied bluntly. “You could charge anything and it would be paid.”  


Nausea curled through John’s gut: definitely too much for John or his kingdom to pay. “How long until he recovers?” he asked curtly.  


The Healder scrutinized him for a long moment. “None of his bones are broken, so he should be walking in the next fortnight.”  


John took a deep breath, in through his nose and out his mouth. “Good,” he said firmly. “Good.” Two weeks should be just fine. Hopefully. He turned to walk out. “Summon me when he starts speaking, please. I’ll be in the library.”


	3. The Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John ponders his ancestry.

Once again sitting in the library, John gave the ledger up for a bad job and turned his chair towards the window. He could remember the day his grandfather died and his grandmother, a frail omega, refused to allow the next “legitimate” (an alpha cousin) heir take over the land. John had been a child, hidden and eavesdropping on a room full of anger. This very library, in fact, just with fewer shelves and books. Over and over, the town elders had demanded the guards take the omega away, to be locked up in the jail, to be taken to the insane asylum in the next town over. Every time, the guards and household staff refused. The Sheriff, a terrifying being to John in his youth, was called, and John was in tears by the time he could hear the lawkeeper’s boots clinking down the hall towards the meeting. 

The sheriff had walked through the door, and John was still grateful to this day he hadn’t seen the look on the man’s face: the adults in the room had, and had gone deathy quiet in just a few heartbeats. 

“Who called me all the way up here to arrest somebody?” His inflection formed the question but his tone dared only the bravest to respond. 

The room was utterly still for a very long time. Just as John was beginning to get lightheaded from holding his breath, his grandmother stood, faced the Sheriff, and tilted her chin up. 

“They called you to arrest me. They hold that even though I have maintained the Watson holdings for over half my life, I am unfit to rule solely because I am an Omega.” 

The sheriff didn’t speak for a long moment, but then he laughed, until he had to brace his hands on his knees, tears rolling down his face, wheezing for breath between bouts. Not a single other being in the room moved, except to flinch at every new burst of mirth. Finally, after he wiped his face and recovered his breath, he waved a careless hand at John’s mother. The woman sat in a daze, and the Sheriff turned towards the elders. 

His voice was low, and quiet, and knife-edge dangerous. “Gentlemen, this lady deserves your respect.” He paused, and checked the face of every single elder in the room. “Do not call me about this matter again.” 

He began to leave, but stopped at the door. He turned, then bowed respectfully to John’s grandmother. “All hail the queen,” he proclaimed quietly. “Gods keep you, m’lady.” 

Now-adult John, gazing out over the summer afternoon, wondered to himself if three generations were enough to make a family a matriarchy: his grandmother had trained up her omega child to rule the land, who had in turn trained both her omega children for it because war was brewing and John potentially had a career in the business of war. 

John’s hands tightened over the arms of his chair. He cursed his injury on a near-daily basis (especially in the aches of winter) but couldn’t regret the winding path of his fate. War had allowed him to taste strange liquors, strange spices, strange lovers. Upon his return, Harriet’s caring family surrounded him, and eventually, on a cool, summer evening, Harriet had relinquished the holdings to John. 

“Seven children is too much to compete with running a kingdom, no matter how small it is on the map,” she’d half-joked after handing him the legal documents. “Just think, you’ll be the first male omega sitting at Grama’s desk in the library. She’d be so proud!” 

John, summer sunshine warming his outstretched legs, forced himself to breathe. Yes, that wizened old woman who had stood defiantly to be arrested would be proud of him: he, who couldn’t pull the farmers in his kingdom out of their post-war debts; he, who was practically lame in one leg; he, who would never bear… 

The library door opened. He turned in the chair and saw Mary stood in the doorwary, wry amusement written across her face. “He’s speaking. He wishes to speak to the ‘one in charge’,” she said, bowing to John in a terribly exaggerated manner. 

John frowned at her, unable to parse her attitude. “Has he been rude to you?” he finally hazarded after he’d limped over to her. She made an exasperated face at him. 

“He’s an utter arse,” she answered bluntly. “Self-defense mechanism, yes, but an arse nonetheless.” 

He grinned at her. “Should we move up his potential departure date?” 

She frowned at him and punched him lightly in the arm. “Don’t tempt me, sir,” she answered, and John laughed.


	4. The All-Seeing Eye

John wasn’t halfway through the door before the stranger sighed in an exaggerated manner, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. John decided to err on the side of pleasant authority. 

“I am the ruler of these lands,” he said, bowing slightly. “I would prefer you not call me king, but…” 

The stranger interrupted. “Why anyone would bother calling you a ‘king’ boggles the mind.” Dispite his obvious weariness, his voice was effortessly pointed, accusing, cutting, as if John had done him a personal insult by simply existing. He spoke with the inflection and vocabulary of royalty. “Your incompetence is matched only by your desire to escape responsibility. You’ve escaped before—army life was good for you—but the horrors of war caught up with you, and left you irreparable.” John, already stunned by the words, froze when the stranger’s eyes met his own. The eyes were a piercing, terrifying grey: bright and sharp. John broke into a sweat, reminded vividly of the moment he woke up in a desert sea of blood, lance run through his upper leg, rendering him immobile and in excruciating pain. “Your injury was insult enough, but your subsequent illness was the truly cruel blow: you were rendered eternally childless. You were then and forever a useless omega.” The stranger closed his eyes and affected boredom, but John hardly noted it. He couldn’t move. His mind flashed back to a westerner he’d served with in the army, who retold his native myths after their dinners out under the stars. One of the westerner’s favorites had been about a man the gods punished by turning into stone, all except for his ears, so he would be tortured by the cruelty of his family and neighbors for eternity. John couldn’t so much as clench his hands to verify he hadn’t been turned into stone. The man sounded utterly bored now, still masterfully hiding his listlessness. “Your sibling pitied you, signing over the crown and its responsibility, leaving you a king without a hope for a mate, in charge of an eroding kingdom. Even if I was uninjured, I would not bow to you or recognize your authority.” 

John faintly noted Mary squeezing past him and the doorway to place herself between John and the stranger. Her righteous anger passed by him as he forced himself to breathe. It was as though the stranger had cut him open with surgical precision, removing each organ in turn and placing them on a table to anyone to see. If John erased the vitrol the man had delivered his speech with, then everything the man said had been utterly, terribly, horribly _true_. 

His movement rushed back. “Enough!” he barked, and the two stopped mid-word. John breathed for a moment, then scrubbed a hand over his face. He turned toward the hallway. “Standford!” he called, and the guard stood behind him in a few moments. 

“Sir?” he asked, sword in hand, visibly confused at the calmness of the room. 

John pointed towards the stranger. “You are responsible for this man’s safety while he is in this kingdom. He is to be treated with respect by everyone who encounters him. You do not cater to his every whim, but you will see to it that his needs are met. Do you understand?” 

Standford, bewildered but accustomed to following John’s orders, sheathed his sword. “As you say, m’lord.” 

John turned to Mary, who was now facing him. “Do not rebuke him for speaking the truth, even in anger,” he said quietly, and she blinked at him. After a moment, she nodded minutely. 

John turned to the stranger, whose eyes were still shut, and raised his voice slightly. “You’re my responsibility until you’re fit to travel and willing to leave. I will provide sanctuary as far as I’m able until you reach the border of my land.” 

The stranger’s eyes opened again at that. “Sanctuary?” he sneered. “To a whore? Let me kiss your feet in thanks!” he rolled his eyes in the most dramatic manner John could imagine then closed them again. 

John clenched his fist and opened it several times, forcing slow breaths through his nose. The animals wandering through the wartime desert had been skittish in the extreme, barely surviving in the fine line between starving to death and being just friendly enough to gain some of the army’s food. John had seen the bruising that painted the stranger’s skin: the animals fleeing overt violence paused for nothing, preferring starvation over risking a potential trap. 

He placed a hand on Mary’s shoulder. “You’ve survived worse patients, myself included.” Mary smiled wryly at that. John turned away and set his shoulders. “Keep me updated,” he said to Standford, who saluted and crossed into the room after John left.


	5. The Conversation

The night shushed and chirped around John as he reclined under the moonless night, wooden chair cool beneath him, warm blanket draped across his legs. He was facing away from the doors that led to his rooms so that he could see the stars stretching from the horizon all the way to the dome of the heavens. The bells announcing midnight prayers had rung an inderterminable time ago: the cool night flowed around him like an ocean’s tide, cycling through noise and silence in endless repetitions. John was no stranger to sleeplessness; he preferred these quiet eternities where his mind could be at peace while his body couldn’t rest. 

Suddenly, he heard something crash indoors. He was up, hobbling as quickly as possible into the house, before the sound faded from his ears. He’d recognized the sound instantly, a mix of ringing metal pieces and the shattering of porcelain—after he’d been injured, and before he’d fallen ill, the same sound had woken him in the wartime infirmary. It was the sound of medical instruments—more religious than medicinal, in John’s opinion—and a medicine bowl falling to the polished stone floor Healers prefer for their workspaces. 

Someone was in the infirmary. 

Standford was sitting outside the infirmary door, still reeling from his abrupt awakening. John motioned for the man to remain silent and moved slowly through the doorway, breathing through his mouth, ears straining. One candle was burning on the far wall, throwing more shadow than light. The cot was empty; the tray of medical supplies and herbs that had been sitting next to it upset onto the floor. The room was motionless for one heartbeat, two, three, then… 

John heard a single person resume breathing, and breathed a sigh of relief himself. No intruders, just a startled stranger in hiding. He began searching the shadows with his eyes, still moving carefully through the room. Finally, he found the stranger curled into the space between the medicine cabinet and the far wall. The stranger’s eyes were wide open, jet black in the low light and glinting with the pattern of the flame. 

John didn’t approach. He carefully knelt, then sat on the cold stone floor, placing his cane behind him. They stared at each other in the silence, and John wished the whirring summer night could be around them instead of the heartbeat in his ears. 

Then the stranger opened his mouth to speak, breaking the silence. “Why do you care about my safety?” he asked, disdain flavoring his words but not overpowering them as it had before. 

John sighed. “I care about everyone’s safety while they’re on my land. It’s what a king does. A proper one, anyway. Good people live here, and I want to preserve that for as long as possible.” He gestured slightly towards the stranger. “If I am ever a slave, in this life or the next, and I decide to escape, I want someone to help me when I’m naked and dying.” 

The stranger scoffed. “You are not a religious man,” he countered, and John laughed slightly, nodding. 

“You’re right, I’m not. If war taught me one thing, it’s that…” John sobered and looked the stranger squarely in the eye. “It’s that the gods don’t determine the good acts in this world: we do.” 

The stranger returned the gaze for a very long moment, then nodded so slightly John almost didn’t catch it. He looked away, and John had an idea. He dug into his pocket and pulled out the folding knife he kept there, a remnant from his days in the army. He held it up for the stranger to see, then carefully opened it so he could see how the mechanism worked. He snapped it closed and placed it between them, then scooted it towards the stranger, who just stared at John, expression unreadable in the low light. 

John sighed again. “Keep it with you, in case something happens. I can only guarantee your safety so far. All I ask is that you don’t attack the Healer: I’d never be able to replace her.” Suddenly, he was achingly tired, the cold of the tile seeping through his leg. He pushed himself to his feet, not looking at the stranger again, and hobbled out of the room. 

He waved the all-clear to Standford, and somehow made it to his rooms without falling. He sank into bed, sleep overtaking him with uncommon swiftness. He dreampt of stars made of distant, flickering candles, and cicadias whispering secrets in the night.


	6. The Desolation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> un-beta'd and short

John gazed out over the land, jaw clenched tight. A haze hung all around him--these fields had burned all night, caught only when the morning watchwoman had glimpsed the far-off smoke. John had known the man who farmed here, and now that man was nothing more than a lifeless, bloodied husk. This wasn't the first slash-and-burn under his reign, and John was grim with the knowledge that it wouldn't be the last.  
The sherriff sighed irritably and spat. “Nothin’ much I can tell you, boss,” he said to John, crossing his arms. “Same as all the others. The crops are ruined, not a trace of who did it, and so on. Far as I can reckon, Bart was doin’ his own patrols, seein’ how far he lived from town and all, and caught them. Poor bastard.”  
John felt sick. Most farmers on his land had enough family and neighbors to keep patrols after the first acts of vandalism were discovered. Bart lived on an isolated farm, the nearest soul a mile through dense and dangerous forest. He wasn’t a frail old man: just three months ago he’d won the strongman contest at the spring festival. John didn’t have the guards to post at every farm, and even if he did, he’d probably be sending them to their gruesome deaths.  
The sheriff was watching him out of the corner of his eye. “You get another offer to sell?” he asked quietly, and John sighed.  
“Not in the last few weeks. I’m expecting one, though.” John shook his head, then adjusted his hat and clapped the sheriff on the shoulder. “Keep me updated. If his savings can’t pay for the burial, I’d be happy to help out.”

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

“How are you still alive when your Healer clings to practices from the stone ages?” the stranger demanded petulantly as John entered the infirmary. John was surprised it was still morning: the bowl incident felt like ages ago.  
John paused, still melancholy from the latest act of vandalism, still sore from the ride to and from the scene, and tried to laugh. He halfway succeeded. “You should be grateful I don’t allow her to use leeches,” he said wearily, and sat on the stool next to the cot. The stranger was already looking healthier: the bruises visible on his arms were fading, eyes even brighter today than yesterday. He was sitting up in the cot, bowl of what looked like oatmeal in his lap; if Mary had filled the bowl, then half of the oatmeal had been eaten already.  
John’s stomach rumbled and as if on cue, Mary poked her head around her office door.  
“I put the tureen in here, and I’ve even got a bit of honey left over after Sherlock had his share.”  
John looked from Mary to the stranger, who shrugged without a hint of regret. “It’s not like you’re in the middle of a shortage,” he said primly, and John felt a laugh bubble up from under his gloom.  
"Did Mary bribe you with food to gain knowledge of your name?" he asked teasingly. The man rolled his eyes but didn't reply. John shrugged and stood up to get some food. "I wouldn't blame you, as she used the same tactics on me and greatly succeeded!"  
Mary was standing at the counter before her herbal cabinet, sleeves rolled to her elbows, crushing some unidentifiable dried leaves in her favorite stone mortar.  
“Thanks for talking to him,” she said quietly as John served himself some oatmeal. He paused and looked at her.  
“How do you mean?” he asked.  
She chuckled. “He didn’t try to take my head off and Standford said you’d talked to him last night: obviously you worked your charms on him and calmed him down a bit.”  
John turned back to the oatmeal. “I may not be able to run a kingdom, but at least I have a way with people,” he said ruefully. He could feel Mary frowning at him, but she didn’t say anything further.  
He stood at the door to her office and leisurely broke his fast, letting his eyes take in the entire room. The stranger—Sherlock, what a ridiculously northern name—was studying him with a distant curiosity.   
“There isn’t a single hypodermic syringe in this entire infirmary,” Sherlock finally said, and after a beat, John realized that the man wasn’t being rhetorical. John thought for a moment, then shrugged.  
“Modern Medicine is what made me ill after my injury,” he said bluntly. “Mary says that the new doctors have learned to respect the new technology when they use it. Too late for me: the damage is done. Mary’s way of healing hasn’t harmed me yet.”  
Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. John finished his oatmeal and set his bowl and spoon next to the tureen. “Keep me updated,” John told the Healer, who was done crushing the herbs and was stirring them into a bit of oatmeal for Sherlock to eat. She hummed in acknowledgement and John limped across the room to leave.  
Sherlock’s voice stopped him. “Your healer says I’ll be walking today. The infirmary is utterly boring by now.”  
John blinked at him, then smiled a bit. “Are you saying you want a tour of the house?” he said, half teasingly. “I would think you’d rather do your own explorations.”  
Sherlock rolled his eyes at him and John laughed. “I’ll be in the library: Standford can show you the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope John's sentiments aren't construed to mean I (the author) am anti-science or anti-medicine. In this universe, John grew sick when new medical technologies were being used and he ended up being harmed by their newness. (I always imagine that when penicillin first went into medical use, it did some harm while doing resounding good.)


	7. The Library

True to promise, Sherlock wobbled into the library, leaning on Standford’s arm, slightly after midday. He looked grumpy, and John was reminded of his own time re-learning how to walk. He stifled a laugh: there was something endearing about the combination of Sherlock’s petulant frown and the unruly mess of hair curling over his eyes.

“Mary said he’s not to do more than a few laps around the shelves, sir,” Standford dutifully reported, and John nodded his understanding. He stood and made his way to the duo, then turned so his good shoulder was closest to the invalid. If worst came to worst, Standford could help them both to their feet.

As Sherlock’s hand clamped down on John’s shoulder, John realized two things. One, the man’s hands didn’t suffer from the weakness his body had incurred: his grip was downright painful. Two, the man’s hands were enormous, with the longest fingers John had ever seen.

He swallowed and forcibly dismissed the realization. He looked up at the man and put a pleasant smile on his face. “Ready?” he asked.

Sherlock was scrutinizing him again, his all-seeing eyes partially hidden behind his hair, which did nothing to relieve John’s discomfort. After a moment, Sherlock seemed to shake himself out of his thoughts and he nodded. “Are these your family’s books, or do you keep only specific ones?” Sherlock asked amicably and John smiled, genuinely this time.

“Well…” he began, and put a stablizing arm around Sherlock’s (horrifically thin!) waist. He began their walk. “These shelves here are for my grandmother’s treasures…”

 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

That night, John felt the need to wander instead of admiring the stars. He slowly limped through the house, stopping at each closed-off room to open the door and gaze at the sheet-covered furnishings. This place he called home truly was a castle, a palace, when viewed objectively: many floors and many more rooms; servants’ quarters; a barn to the south that could hold two dozen horses. It seemed smaller to John than it actually was because he kept most of it closed up and curtains drawn shut: he, his healer, and his small contingent of guards and servants were the only ones living in the place. It would be too expensive to maintain the host of unused rooms as his grandmother had kept them, windows wide open and breezes sweeping through the halls, bright sunlight warming the wood floors. The emptiness saddened John immensely, so it was kinder to himself to pretend his rooms, the library, and the infirmary were the only places that existed in the house.

Tonight he allowed himself to drown in the emptiness, in the lost futures where his children filled the rooms with noise during the night and cast shadows across floorboards glowing in midday sun. He allowed himself to imagine a mate, handsome and practical, looking up from whatever task they were doing and smiling at the sight of him.

He sighed and closed the door of the room, moving to the next one. 

Eventually, he’d made it through two floors of the house and was standing in front of the library door. He could see light flickering under it and he frowned. He couldn’t afford to waste candles by letting them burn all night and if he didn’t remember to extinguish them, then the guards in charge of patrolling the grounds would usually inform him.

John opened the door and stepped into the room.

The first thing he saw was Standford slumped in one of the chairs lining the walls, snoring slightly. John blinked and moved farther into the room. Sherlock was curled up against the third row of bookshelves, having stolen a cushion from one of the couches in the room to sit on. John blinked again. His favorite book was sitting open in Sherlock’s hands, and the man seemed deeply absorbed in the tale.

“You can read?” John asked stupidly. Sherlock’s eyes flicked to him and the man raised an eyebrow. John was caught between justifying his question with the obvious but embarrassing—“When did they start teaching prostitutes to read?”—or just keeping his damn mouth shut.

Sherlock sighed and closed the book. “My brother,” he said the word with distaste, “is the one who taught me to read, as a child. He took a lot of pains with my education, not all of which went to waste.” His voice turned wry at the end. John’s curiosity spiked and the words tried to force their way out—“What happened to make you into a prostitute?”—but he managed to fight them back down.

Sherlock was scrutinizing him again. “John,” he asked solemnly, like a teacher explaining something serious and terrible in a straightforward manner, “Do you know why alphas are preferred as prostitutes?”

John shook his head, then lowered himself to the floor, sitting up against the shelves.

“Omegas would seem the most obvious choice,” he admitted. “Heat frenzy and all.”

Sherlock nodded indulgently. “Take a step back and look at the bigger picture: even the youngest, healthiest omegas only go into heat once a month, and for days at a time. There’s only a small market for that kind of sexual activity, so no significant amounts of money can be made. And further: why would those omegas sell themselves into slavery when they could make ten times as much money in a marriage agreement? No, the omegas desperate enough to turn to prostitution are made less desirable by their debilitating and unpredictable heats. True money is made in servicing the hundreds of thousands of travelers who pass through the northland’s cities each year. For those clients, alphas are the best solution: a quick night of pleasure, a burst of light in the endless winter nights.”

Sherlock’s blunt, straightforward honesty emboldened John and he spoke. “Why are you, a decently well-educated and well-spoken alpha, a prostitute?”

Sherlock’s eyes glanced away; it was the first time he hadn’t looked haughty since John had seen him awake. After a long moment, he lifted a hand and gripped the inside of his elbow, as if it had suddenly pained him.

“I was a rich, young fool,” he said bluntly. “I was endlessly bored and escaped that as frequently as I could. There are chemicals sold, if you know the right people, that allow one to escape, utterly and completely.” His eyes were glazed, dark and far away by now, his voice almost blithe. “Such things are frowned upon, and I lost my family and my money simultaneously. But the hunger endures, regardless of funds, and I was swept into a flood of debt quite quickly. My collectors gave me a choice: the money, my body, or my life.”

John thought suddenly of the war: the boredom of inaction, the breathing of air saturated with blood, and the hunger, outrunning terror to drink and laugh about it later. He wondered if he could have made the choice, if his illness had allowed for it: his life or his ability to have children? As it was, he had awoken to the choice made for him.

Sherlock blinked, coming back to the present, and shrugged. “I was young and had no concept of the decision I was making. I could have begged my family for the money, but I was far too proud. I imagined myself a quick-burning fuse, burning brightly but quickly into oblivion. I didn’t realize the surgery had been done until a fortnight after it occurred, because my owner allowed me to keep using drugs up to that point.”

John couldn’t speak—there was nothing to say, not really.

Sherlock shrugged again. “I was extremely lucky to be born with this face and this body: with a fair bit of shrewdness, I became my own master, up to a point. I could pick my own clients, within reason. I was very lucrative. It actually became a game to me, to learn how to understand what the client wanted, and deliver flawlessly.” He was preening slightly, and John chuckled quietly. Hearing the story without remorse was like debridement by fire: this man had found a way to survive a fate that John couldn’t imagine surviving in a thousand lifetimes.

“What brought you here?” John asked simply. “What happened to disrupt that status quo and make you a fugitive?”

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, then forcefully exhaled and reopened them. “I happened across a new client who quickly became obsessed with me. He was halfway through negotiating with my contract holder for exclusivity when I came to understand how dangerous he was. I compiled enough evidence to conclude he was possibly the greatest criminal mind in the north: his web extended into even the southern countries, and across the seas, manned by countless agents and innocents.” Sherlock’s face was utterly impassive now. “Thankfully, I wasn’t foolish enough to confront him but my contact with law enforcement didn’t go as planned. I barely escaped with my life.”

John could feel secondary terror prickling across his skin, and he forced himself to breathe. “What is your plan?” he forced out. “After Mary kicks you out of the infirmary?”

It was the right thing to say: the moment lifted and Sherlock chuckled. “My old nursemaid lives on the shores of the Southeast, just a couple weeks travel on foot from here. I knew that if I made it there, I would be safe.”

John imagined Sherlock trying to terrorize an old woman who had watched him grow up and wouldn’t allow him to scare her. He smiled warmly. “Caravans go out that way all the time. I’ll make sure you gain passage on the first one out after Mary signs your clean bill of health.”

Sherlock was gazing at him, half-smile hiding the intensity of his eyes. “You really do care, don’t you?” he asked quietly, and rose to his feet in a semi-graceful movement. He reverently placed the book back on the shelf, then held out a hand to John. “Your healer will have my head if I allow you to sit out here all night.”

John laughed at that and struggled to his feet with Sherlock’s help. Together, they limped out of the library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be the first to admit that I know nothing about prostitution. I read fics that feature characters who start as prositutes, but I understand those stories aren't reality. It is my hope that this portrayal isn't offensive or ridiculous.  
> This chapter is actually the reason I wrote this fic: I wanted to create a role-reversal and turn a trope on it's head--specifically, the assumption in alpha/beta/omega-verse that omegas would be sex workers (since they're kinda the equivalent of women?). I also wanted to upend the assumption that "omega = woman" by having John, the omega in this love story, exhibit both male and female traits. I know that the alpha/beta/omega-verse (slash trope) is varied and can range from "ridiculous PWP" to "where's the freaking porn??" and I wanted to create a story somewhere in the middle. Anyway. I love trope-upheval, obviously.


	8. The Ember

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter to get the ball rolling again. Obviously un-beta'd. Sorry for the delay! I honestly didn't realize it has been a couple of *years* since I posted this. Life has been crazy.

John is woken up the next morning by a restlessness he can’t quite describe. He wanders through his rooms, not quite knowing how to dress for the day. He finally chooses something comfortable and heads over to the kitchen. The cooking fire is making the kitchen more sweltering than he predicted, and he can smell every single jar of spice on the shelves. He fills his bowl, thanks the cook, and decides the infirmary should be cool and quiet enough for his needs today.

His restlessness intensifies as soon as he walks through the doorway. Sanford is nowhere to be seen but Mary sat at her desk, looking up from her breakfast at his entry. "I sent Sandford out on a break," she reported, then raised an eyebrow at the bowl in his hand.

“Too hot in the kitchen,” he explained, then curiously glanced around for Sherlock – he hadn’t been on his cot when John came in.

The man in question was sitting in the infirmary’s comfiest chair, legs folded up close to his body, bowl balanced on his knees, sitting perfectly still. Walking closer, John realized he was birdwatching through the window: Mary must have scattered some crumbs on the ground outside.

When John got close enough to scare the birds away, Sherlock let out a huff of frustration and unfolded his legs. He looked over at John, presumably to say something rude, but stopped himself. He narrowed his eyes at John, a series of expressions forming and flitting away that John couldn’t interpret. Before he seems to make up his mind about what to say, Mary speaks lightly.  
“You should take Sherlock out to see the bees today, John. Donovan is harvesting one of the hives. If you two are very nice to her, she might allow you to test the batch.”

Sherlock lights up at that, and John can’t help but laugh. “Let me eat, first,” he half-begs, causing Sherlock to roll his eyes and scoff. “If you _must_ ,” he grouses, causing John to laugh again. John finds a tolerably comfortable chair across the room, out of Sherlock’s line of sight. Mary does him the courtesy of pretending he’s not there, allowing himself some space to think.

With some breakfast, he is finally able to label his mood: it’s like the last ember in a fire glowing in the early hours of the morning. But what the mood _means_ is still unclear. He tries to put it from his mind. Scooting out of his solitude, he can see Sherlock fidgeting in his chair, impatience to leave palpable. He can tell now that Mary is trying to remain calm but her patient is close to driving her into the madhouse. She glares at John over her empty bowl, wordlessly. John shrugs apologetically, to which Mary rolls her eyes (in a very Sherlock-like manner, John notes) and turns to open a book on her desk. John walks over and helps Sherlock out of his chair. His grip might be stronger than yesterday. As they hobble out of the infirmary together, Mary addresses them both while still perusing her text. “Stay out as long as you like, but rest when you’re tired.” After a beat, she looks up at them. “Is that understood?”

Sherlock and John swallow involuntarily at the same time, which makes John want to laugh. Sherlock smiles the most charming smile John has ever seen. “Of course,” he answers smoothly. John waits until they’re out of the room to laugh, and after a moment, Sherlock laughs too, a faraway thunder that rolls right through John.

"You're going to need a hat," he says after directing them to his rooms. Sherlock is leaning in the doorway, looking slightly winded, the unreadable expression on his face again, which clears at John's pronouncement. He scowls as John continues to dig through his clothes. Sherlock points to the straw hat John is currently wearing.

"If you think that I am going to wear something as ridiculous as _that_..." he starts, but is cut off by John brandishing a second hat triumphantly. This one is even more absurd than John's current headgear. John can see the tantrum brewing and he smiles guilelessly.

"Either you wear this hat outside, or I tell Mary you exerted yourself needlessly," he says, holding out the hat. Sherlock full-on glares at him, expression not dimming a whit as he hobbles across the floor and snatches it out of John's hand. He crams it onto his head, over his summer-weather-curled locks.

John is actively fighting laughter at this point. "Don't look in the glass," he advises Sherlock, taking his position as a slightly-defective human crutch. Sherlock doesn't answer, pique practically coming off of him like steam from a boiling pot.

"With you being so quiet, I think you and my beekeeper will get along just fine," John says, deliberately blithe, as they cross the second threshold into the summer heat. Sherlock doesn't reply and John can't help it anymore - he laughs and laughs and laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> I was tired of waiting to finish this fic, so I'm posting it as I finish it.


End file.
